


A Nog on the Head

by beederiffic



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, Holidays, Humor, Intoxication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beederiffic/pseuds/beederiffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt: “Scotty makes eggnog and Kirk gets blasted on it. Spock assists Kirk back to his cabin and Kirk is very grabby handsy with him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Nog on the Head

**Author's Note:**

> Written for K/S Advent

It was not the first time Spock had observed the pathophysiology of human alcoholic intoxication and, he was sure, would not be the last, but the personal idiosyncrasies revealed by a simple lowering of social inhibition through inebriation would never fail to fascinate him. 

Nyota, for example. Usually a graceful, focused and, above all, professional individual, she appeared now to trip over the toe of her own boot, falling into a surprised and pleased Sulu's lap with a hoot of laughter. Her skirt rucked up to reveal a long expanse of smooth brown thigh, the pheromonal output of that corner of the recreation room increasing by a notable degree as the males surrounding her registered her potent sexuality in full exhibition. 

She'd cornered Spock alone this evening three times with that sprig of cultivated hemi-parasitical evergreen to request that he kiss her for Christmas, an intimacy she felt comfortable demanding from him although they had agreed to end their sexual partnership due to mutual incompatibility two months and fifteen days ago. It was as illogical as it was charming, several crew members surreptitiously monitoring her progress around the room as she threw her arms around Hannity and _'laid one on her'_ , in the ship's common vernacular. 

Perhaps, as her former mate, he should feel more than a sense of indulgent paternalism towards her public display, some spark of jealously or possessiveness. Spock searched his mind, opening himself to the notion, but he did not find a hint of those feelings. There was a definite sense of pleasure at watching her, at watching them all forget themselves and their ranks so easily. She was having fun, as they all appeared to be. Spock made a mental note to congratulate Mr. Scott on the success of his Christmas Eve 'get together' once the Chief Engineer had sobered up, or, at the very least, had stopped dancing on that recreation room table with Ensign Chekov. 

The table was not designed for such use. Spock hoped there would not be an incident requiring medical assistance, as Dr. McCoy and his staff appeared to be enjoying Mr. Scott's festive concoction as much as the rest of the gathered crew, and Spock's knowledge of Human physiology was primarily theoretical in nature. Less so now, since his brief relationship with Nyota, but he could not be sure of his ability to perform adequately should he be the only crew member available and sober enough to provide emergency care.

“Oh, come on, Spock, you haven't finished your cup.” Nyota had danced her way to his side once more, twirling her increasingly limp piece of mistletoe between a finger and thumb as she drained the last of her fifth. “Don't you like it?”

“It is very sweet.”

“That's not an answer. Needs more nog, though. Hey, Scotty!” Spock winced inwardly as she raised her cup and her voice above the music to shout a few inches from his ear across the room to the still-dancing Mr. Scott. “Needs more nog!”

“Aye sir, Mister Uhura, sir!” Mr. Scott replied with a sloppy, archaic salute as he clambered off the table unsteadily to dig yet another bottle of alcoholic liquor from beneath the buffet table to pour the entire contents into the eggnog bowl, stirring it in with a metal spoon that might possibly begin to corrode, given the alcoholic content of the mixture. “Anythin' ta make a happy Christmas for a bonny wee lass like yersel'.”

“You're a gent, Scotty. Never let anyone tell you different.” 

The engineer flushed a deeper red with pleasure as she blew him a kiss before she turned once more to Spock, taking his cup from his hand, a brief brush of her fingers against his allowing a moment's drunken, laughing, celebratory joy bloom within him. Then her touch, and therefore her mind, withdrew from him once more. She tossed back the remains of his beverage before poking him hard in the center of his chest with one finger. 

“I'll go top us both up, and then you're going to dance with me, bucko.”

Spock did not want to dance. He was certain of that. “It would be inappropriate, given my position as First Officer.”

The finger landed square on his lips, silencing him. 

“That's BS. Look at Scotty! And you're built for it. You got those snaky hips and I want to see you shimmy that tiny, tight tail-feather of yours. Pretty please?” The finger stroked along his jaw. “For me?”

It was vanity, Spock knew it and was aware it was a personality trait he should seek to rid himself of, but he also knew that his mind was sharp enough to find some excuse to get out of this that would appease her without him having to resort to physical displays of seasonal merriment on his part. He looked about the room at a speed she would not be able to follow, unable as she currently was to focus without blinking and tilting her head as though the room was moving around her, and found his excuse sitting slumped in a far, dark corner, gazing morosely out at the passing stars, unobserved by the rest of the party.

“I apologize, but I must see to the captain. He appears to be in need of assistance.”

Perhaps it had been the wrong thing to say, although Spock was unsure as to why it would be. Nyota's eyes flashed, her lips compressing into a thin line as she nodded and shrugged and gave him a tight smile that even Spock knew had nothing to do with happiness. 

“The captain. Right, gotcha. Okay, guess I'll have to find someone else to dance with.”

But the captain had captured his attention almost entirely, the set of his body so eloquently mournful, his face void of emotion in the semi-light, his eyes huge and dark with sorrow. It was the only descriptor Spock could put to what he saw. 

“Perhaps another time?”

“Aww, forget it.” She tugged his elbow towards her and stepped up on her tip toes to press a kiss against his cheek, her fragrance swirling around his senses as dazzlingly as his telepathic sense of her intoxication. “You're probably a crappy dancer anyway. The amount of time it used to take to get you halfway loosened up . . .”

A grin from her indicated that she had noted the blood coloring his cheeks as her meaning became clear to him. He removed her fingers from his face and squeezed them lightly in affection, an intimate familiarity possibly no longer appropriate given their return to a platonic relationship, before dropping her hand and ending their connection. 

“Allow me to state now that I hope you have a satisfactory Christmas, in case our paths do not cross tomorrow.”

“You, too. Now, go see to your man.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and brushed her uniform down, setting her shoulders and jaw as if preparing for a confrontation. “I need to go find an ensign to traumatize on the dance floor.”

 _'Your man.'_ An acknowledgment of his rank in context with the captain's? A curious choice of phrasing, but those thoughts left him as he stepped closer towards the captain, coming to a halt two feet from the captain's choice of seat and standing at rest. The captain gave no sign that he had noticed Spock's presence, his eyes wet with unshed tears as he sat in silence and stared at the stars. After two point four two seconds, Spock opened his mouth to inquire after the captain's well-being, at the same moment that the captain chose to speak. 

“Beautiful, aren't they? It's not till you get up here with 'em that you see how alone they are.”

Spock considered the possibility that the captain might be speaking in metaphor, but the captain seldom lacking in company, and Spock was not able to think of who else he might be referring to. “The stars, Captain?”

“Spock!” The captain knocked his cup over unnoticed as he threw out his hands in welcome. “Spock, ol buddy. Ol pal, ol buddy of mine, Spock. Spocky, Spocky, Spock. Hey, Spock.”

“Good evening, Captain.”

“You're my friend, now, right?”

“I am. As, I believe, you are mine.”

It appeared that the captain had been enjoying the eggnog with rather more enthusiasm that Spock had, his eyes appearing to focus somewhere over Spock's left shoulder as he squinted up towards Spock, wiping over his cheeks with the back of one unsteady hand. 

“Then why, for the love of God, Spock, can't you call me Jim? Jim! S'my name. Jus' one time, I shouldn't hafta ask for it. Jim. S'not a difficult name. Like, I dunno, D'F'arsenf'ard'f'üffen . . . fen.” The captain's voice trailed off as he frowned in sudden bewilderment. “That's a difficult name. Jim's not difficult. Not even a lil, teeny, tiny bit. Not for a big ol brain like yours.”

“I do not find your name difficult to pronounce.” _Captain_. It came to his lips automatically, but Spock bit back the mention of Jim's rank, replacing it instead with the name in question. “Jim.”

“There! Y'see? Good job.” Jim's hand moved to slap Spock in congratulations on the arm, but missed, Jim lifting and staring at it in confusion for a beat before speaking once more, one wavering finger pointing accusingly towards Spock. “Knew you had it in you. Now we jus' gotta see if you can do it more than once.”

Jim leaned forward and lowered his voice as if imparting some great secret. “Cuz, y'see, I'm not convinced you can.”

“Jim –”

“Fuck me sideways, apparently I was wrong.” The smile was so instant and broad Spock almost found himself smiling back. “Is there anything you can't do? I'm honestly asking.”

How should he best present his concern? “Jim, are you currently well?”

Spock felt his chest constrict in an unfamiliar emotional response as Jim shook his head with an unsteady chuckle, his friend and captain's eyes started to fill with tears once more, swamping those unusual blue irises that shone brighter than ever against Jim's reddening sclera as they glanced blearily up at Spock once more. 

“Still short on blood. Bones warned me but I didn' listen, my blood supply's a lil,” Jim whistled and made a twirling gesture with his finger that Spock didn't understand, “After I lost so much of it last week, so I shouldn'ta tried to replace it all with eggnog. That was stupid. Real stupid. I'm ver' drunk. Been waiting here to sober up but noticed the stars and kinda got lost in them, y'know? They're so . . . so _silent_. Space. Quiet place, space. Vacuum. Big ol vacuum. Though, not totally, not perfectly. But you know that. Bones didn't. 'Stuff that man doesn't know scares me shitless sometimes.” 

A heavy sigh followed by a sniff, and Spock considered how to respond, once more unsure what was expected of him. Jim saved him again from having to figure it out.

“Yeah. Never thought I'd say this but, goddamn, gotta love synthehol. The old stuff sure bites you in the ass when you're not looking. Good fuckin' gravy, I'm drunker than a . . . a . . .” He squinted up at Spock again. “Wha' was I talkin' about?”

“Your level of intoxication. You could retire to your quarters to recover in private.”

The captain's head fell back against the unit behind him as he closed his eyes to shake his head. 

“S'good plan, Spocky, ol pal, if I could walk worth a damn right now.”

“Then I will assist you.”

“Yeah? You'd do that? You're a sweet guy, you know that? You are. Total sweetheart. Nice guy. Good friend.” 

The smile was back, a tear leaking out from one of the closed eyes to drip wetly down one cheek leaving a darker trail behind. Regardless to what the rest of the crew thought of him and his supposed lack of emotions, Spock believed that he had an effective grasp of both his own emotional states and of those around him, but he could not have accurately labeled whatever emotion or emotions Jim was currently experiencing if his own existence had depended on it. Nor the answering responses in himself, an overwhelming tenderness clouding his mind as he reached out to grab Jim by the armpits and pull him up to his feet. 

“Whoa, watchit, might . . .” Jim's cheeks puffed out and, for one horrible moment, Spock thought Jim was about to rid his body of the polluting eggnog all over Spock's boots, but one deep breath in through his nose and Jim seemed to settle, blowing the air out his cheeks in an alcoholic haze. “That was close. Not so much with the sharp movements, 'kay?”

“Are you able to stand unassisted?”

A lopsided, amiable grin. “Dunno. Let's find out.”

Spock slowly released Jim, the grin never faltering as the captain wavered on his feet back and forth three times before slowly beginning to crumple to the floor. Spock caught him by the armpits once more, Jim chuckling to himself as Spock pulled one of Jim's arms around his shoulders for support. 

“Nope! Can't even stand. Greatest captain ever. You think so, though, right, Spock? You think I'm an okay captain?”

Spock had begun to maneuver them both around the edges of the recreation room, nodding in greeting to the few crew members who noticed their passing. 

“You have displayed notable leadership, tactical and administrative skill since you first assumed command of this vessel.”

“See, this is why I love you.”

Spock's footsteps didn't falter. He made sure of it. 

“You're so awesome. I do love you, y'know. 'Feels like you're my buddy cuz you get me like nobody else does, you do, see, nobody else notices that I sweat the lil stuff, but, shhh,” Jim pressed his index finger against his lips like some errant schoolboy including Spock in a conspiracy to misbehave. “It's a secret I like you best. Don't tell Bones.”

“Don't tell Bones what?”

“Bones! Look at you. Hey, Bones. Gimme some sugar.”

The next human who wondered aloud to Spock why Humanity had earned themselves a reputation within the Federation as being grating at times might have this described to them by Spock as an example. McCoy spun on the spot on hearing his nickname to fix Jim with a glare as Jim grinned wide and made to throw his arms around his friend, leaving the support of Spock's shoulder as he did so and promptly overbalancing then crashing to the floor. The doctor looked down with a derisive snort at the tangled pile of captain at his feet.

“In my professional opinion, Captain, you're more sozzled than a raisin in candy-making season. Hate to say I told you so, but I warned you about this.”

Jim's voice was muffled by the floor until Spock moved to haul him up to his feet. “Someone remind me tomorrow to demote Scotty.”

“If you'll be able to quit dry heaving long enough.”

“But you got a hypo for that.”

“Which I'm not giving you.”

“How come?” Jim hiccuped then burped a mouthful of eggnog-scented breath against Spock's cheek, blinking as he fought to fully focus on the doctor. “That's not nice.”

“You never listen to me, because I keep protecting you from the consequences of your actions. Not this time. An honest-to-God hangover's a lesson you're not going to forget in a hurry.”

“You're mean.”

“When it comes to you, not nearly as much as I should be. Drink some water and get some sleep.”

“Way ahead of you, Doc. Spocky here's taking me to bed. Heh. Hehe.” The freckled nose wrinkled, Jim's grin slowly widening. “That sounded dirty. Did that sound dirty to you?”

It was addressed to him, Jim's bushy eyebrows raised in question, McCoy folding his arms belligerently, waiting for Spock's answer. Next to the doctor Ensign Liddle was gazing into his cup, perhaps in the forlorn hope that if he stared into it long enough, his three commanding officers would stop participating in such a personal conversation within his earshot. 

It was what Spock had hoped to avoid by assisting Jim to his quarters, aware as he was that his captain habitually maintained a professional, if somewhat informal, exterior around his crew, only truly appearing to relax fully behind closed doors in his private quarters, kicking his boots off and scratching his buttocks through his pants as he'd call from his way to the fresher for Spock to set up the chess board. Spock had learned that the professional and the private seldom crossed paths where Jim was concerned, regardless to his general demeanor when on duty. He was dedicated, an engaged and committed leader. It was one of his most admirable qualities. One of many.

“It did not. It was a statement of fact. I offered to assist you to your quarters due to your current state of ataxia, and you accepted. If you are ready to continue . . . ?”

“Sure am.” A gentle pat at his cheek with fingers that communicated little but a telepathic sense of foggy intoxication and a dizzying sense of sudden vertigo, Jim's hand sliding from Spock's face and down his neck before moving to grab hold of his shoulder. “Lead on, McSpock. 'Night, Bones. Liddle. Merry Christmas.” 

“Sir.”

“Happy Christmas, Jim. I'll check in on you tomorrow.”

Jim's weight was familiar, almost welcome at his side as Spock continued to support him along the corridor on their way to the turbolift. So many times now, on so many missions, one or the other of them supporting the other due to injury or disorientation, sometimes to the point where Spock began to get the sense that Jim was somehow an extension of himself. Illogical, of course, but the muscular frame against his own now, stumbling and shambolic in drink as it was, fell into step with his easily, moving in rhythm with his own gait, Jim's mumbled commentary a constant stream of slurred syllables at his shoulder. 

“I think everybody had a good time. Good for the crew to be able to kick back. We should take a look at the rec program. Not enough group activity. You remind me. I know you will. I ever tell you you're kinda a nag?”

“An elderly, inferior or otherwise worthless horse?”

“Yeah, Spock, that'd make sense. I'm so drunk I'm calling you a horse.” Jim sniggered, pressing his forehead against Spock's shoulder as Spock reached out to summon the turbolift. “You'd be, like, this magnificent black stallion. No! Silver, with a shining black mane. You'd ride like the wind was at your ankles. Did y'know I can ride? Used to have a great-uncle up in Montana. Liked to climb 'round there, too. We should do that one time. Go climb a mountain together. Go ride some horses. Get out in the air. No air in space. A guy can't breathe, not like in the mountains. You wanna go riding with me?”

“I will consider it if or when the opportunity presents itself.”

Jim's body moved fluidly, his muscles relaxed and trusting as Spock manhandled him into the lift, Jim's arm going around his waist in what was almost an embrace, Jim's forehead once more propped against Spock's chest as he closed his eyes as if in sleep. Spock felt his pulse pick up by an extra nine beats per minute and momentarily closed his own eyes, forcing his body back under control.

“Mm. You'd look good on a horse. You got legs for riding. Long legs. Long, long legs.” A huff of humor against his neck. “They go all the way from the ground up to your butt.”

“Independent mobility would be problematic if they did not.” 

Four point seven minutes. It was the closest approximation Spock could make of the remaining time it would take him to accompany Jim into the captain's quarters. It suddenly seemed like far too long a time and he silently, illogically willed the lift to move faster as Jim's nose nuzzled closer into his neck, long eyelashes brushing his jaw. 

“We should talk about your butt.” 

“No, we should not.” The lift arrived at their floor. Three point two minutes remained. Spock suppressed the impulse to throw Jim over his shoulder and take the hallway at a run, instead pulling Jim's arm around his neck again and starting to move them both towards the captain's quarters.

“We totally should. It deserves more recognition. Like, my ass kind of announces itself. I have this flamboyant, extrovert ass. Yours is quieter and more subtle but, goddamn, it's a masterpiece in its own way. I have noticed this about your ass many times.”

Two point nine minutes. “I do not believe that the musculature of my posterior is in possession of an audible volume.”

“Sure it is. It's like music, the Bach of asses – measured, precise, but heartbreakingly beautiful. Mine's more of a Beethoven. Or, God, a Wagner. How depressing is that? I have a Wagner ass.” 

Two point two minutes. Spock gave into temptation and lifted Jim at his side until Jim's feet were dangling an inch off the ground, Spock's boots speeding ever faster towards the captain's door. Jim did not appear to notice.

“But you like Mozart asses. Your girlfriend's ass is a Mozart. Probably shouldn't admit I notice, but I did. I do. It provokes an emotional response in all those lucky enough to witness it. Totally Mozart.”

“You are aware that I do not have a girlfriend, and your continued insistence on referring to her as such during our personal conversations is illogical.” 

Spock propped Jim against his door long enough for Jim to mumble his key code, Jim tumbling inside with a flail of arms, grabbing at Spock's shirt to keep himself upright. 

“Fuck. Tilty floor. Gotta fix that. You think you could ever learn to love a Wagner ass?”

A wave of fatigue swept over Spock as he looked into Jim's hazy eyes staring into his own from nine centimeters away, the tiredness reminding him he had not slept for four days and that the evening's predicaments were pushing him closer than ever to the need for a long period of welcome meditation. Jim was so close to him, a warm, solid body, fingers twisted in Spock's shirt, breath damp against Spock's face, features muddled in a mix of drunkenness and simmering emotion. Spock carefully reached down between them to take Jim's wrists over the fabric of his uniform shirts, removing the hands from himself and leading Jim backwards to take a seat on the nearest chair. Then he crouched to start removing Jim's boots one by one.

“I will assist you into bed, then you should rest. Doctor McCoy's advice was to hydrate yourself prior to sleep.” Satisfied Jim was safely slumped against the arm of the chair, Spock left his side to fetch a glass of water, returning to hand it over. “Here. Drink this, then I will replenish it.”

“Not unless you want to help me take a piss. I'm running at full capacity right now.”

A mental image as vivid as a holofile flashed through Spock's mind of Jim's body leaning back against his own, Spock's arm supporting his torso as Spock's other hand reached down to open Jim's fly . . . It was too intimate an image, uncomfortably so, Spock once more witnessing his physical self respond before his mental controls acted to prevent it from doing so. 

“Then we should get you into bed.”

“Best offer I've had all year.” 

The underlying tone of melancholy had returned to Jim's voice as he seemed to recover the ability to move without support, only stumbling twice as he half-walked, half-fell towards his bed. He threw himself down, Spock following at a safe distance and watching as Jim grimaced, clutching at his head with both hands.

“Ugh, quit spinning. I think I might need a bucket.”

“I will place a waste receptacle next to the bed before I leave.”

“Good thinking.” Jim threw one leg off the bed, placing one socked foot flat against the floor. “Nope, everything's still rocking. Shit, that usually works. Get over here. I need something steady to anchor myself to.”

Everything inside of Spock cried out for peace, for meditation and a brief night's sleep, some physical and mental distance away from this needy, tactile version of a friend who had corroded Spock's controls since they had first met, much in the manner of sand-bearing desert winds reducing mountain ranges to shifting dunes. He needed to order his thoughts, but one look at the fingers curling in discomfort between dark tufts of golden hair, and his determination to leave wavered long enough for him to seat himself on the edge of Jim's bed, a hand snaking around his hip immediately to grab hold of the fabric of his pants.

“Better. Thanks. Again. I'm always thanking you. Ever notice that?”

“Not more often than I have recall to thank you myself.” 

He gazed down at Jim, unable or unwilling to stop looking at the person huddled up against his hip. Jim did not look his best. Puffy, reddened eyelids moved as Jim's eyes fought to gain equilibrium beneath them, his cheeks flushed with a sickly, unnatural hue, hair soaked a dark brown clinging to his forehead with perspiration, but he remained the most physically beautiful being Spock had ever encountered, and his fingertips ached with the desire to smooth those strands of hair back and to soothe, to touch and calm. But he did not. He waited, and watched as Jim's tongue swiped over his bottom lip before he spoke once more.

“We're a good team. We're the best.”

“I am gratified that you think so, and am in agreement.”

“Yeah? Good.” Fingers spread out across his abdomen, Jim's figure hunching over on its side and curving closer towards him. “I meant what I said earlier.”

Spock's mind efficiently replayed the evening's conversation so far, providing him with no further insight into what specifically Jim was referring to. But Jim's hand moved further up Spock's torso, Jim's head nuzzling into Spock's back as he shifted in the bed to sit up behind him, leaning his head against Spock's shoulder. 

“Shouldn't say anything. Gonna regret this in the morning, but I can't seem to help myself.” 

The caress of Jim's forehead continued as he brushed it back and forth, but Spock could not allow himself to lean back into it, or to turn and offer an embrace. Any form of coupling between them risked the potential loss of too much. Spock knew that, and could not disregard the fact of it, even if his most private desires seemed to be coming to fruition as Jim's hands stroked up the sides of his torso.

“If you believe it is unwise to speak, perhaps you should rest first, as we may continue this at a later date.”

“But it's Christmas and I'm drunk and I'm so tired of being alone, all the damn time, so alone and _wanting_. Nobody understands me like you. We fit together, just right. You feel it same as me.”

Jim's lips brushed warm and dry against the back of his neck, Spock sitting rigid as a statue, maintaining his control although it was being pushed to breaking point. Sensation as sharp as a blade sliced through his body from his earlobe to his groin as Jim nibbled at his ear, the tip of a wet tongue tracing behind it before another kiss was pressed there. 

“It would be prudent to delay this conversation until the effects of your alcohol consumption have ended.”

“No.” Arms wound around him, a solid chest pressing against his back, and he did not want to push them away. “I'm sick of my better judgment. You're my friend, my good friend and I love you like a brother, but it could be so much more. It should be. I'm sobering up now. Just drunk enough to finally act on this, clear-headed enough to know I want it, more than anything.”

“However –”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“– you are incapacitated. Jim.” Fingers cupped Spock's cheek, tracing the line of his chin and guiding him around to face his friend. “It would be irresponsible of me to accept advances from someone not fully in possession of their faculties.”

“Yeah? How about a practical demonstration of how in possession of my faculties I am?”

It was, without question, a kiss of definite facility. The pressure of the lips covering Spock's own was strong enough to signify intent, but not in any form brutish or over-forceful, instead skilled and utterly electrifying. The tongue that slid between his lips as he opened them in surprise teased and aroused as it brushed against his own, withdrawing as a wet moan filled his mouth, hands stroking down his chest to hold his hips as physical arousal surged into his groin. Spock's eyes closed automatically as he opened his mouth wider for more. 

He'd received sexually stimulating kisses before, and the urge to request more, to touch, for fingers to grip him tight and stroke him to climax, was a familiar one, but never before had it hit him with such urgency as Spock sucked the sweet flavor of Mr. Scott's festive brew off the lips of his captain and thrust his tongue hard into Jim's mouth to search for more. But he was not intoxicated, or in any other way suffering from a loss of inhibition or impaired judgment. He could not allow this to continue. 

Jim grunted in annoyance as Spock tried to pull back, the kiss deepening as Jim began to climb across Spock's legs to straddle his lap. It was time to put an end to this, and Spock drew on his frazzled controls to end the kiss, pulling his mouth from Jim's and placing some physical distance between them, Jim sent sprawling across the bed as Spock got to his feet.

“The hell?” Jim's legs were spread wide, his physical arousal obvious against the crotch of his uniform pants. “Ohh, I see. What, are you planning to do, like, a strip for me? Because that's okay. That's great.”

That smile was as disarming as ever, more so with the flavor of that same mouth clinging to his lips as Spock looked down at Jim and mentally battled with a personal anatomy ready to begin enthusiastically mating. 

“I am not going to strip. I must leave. We will discuss this tomorrow.”

“What?” The smile dropped, a frown creasing the skin between suddenly stormy blue eyes. “No. No leaving or talking. Doing. Lots of doing. So much doing.”

“We cannot continue with this at this time. We must discuss the possible repercussions of coitus between us prior to the act taking place, at a time when we are both fully capable of considering those repercussions in full.”

An aggravated sigh, and Jim's mood seemed to switch again as his face fell, all the arousal and drunken charm switching back into to sullen melancholia tinged with a hint of anger as alcohol-induced emotional instability once more took its effect on him. 

“Fucking wonderful. You don't want me. Whatever. Just go.”

“It is not that I do not want –”

“Don't want to hear it. It's late. Get out of here.”

“Jim . . .” Helplessness was, in Spock's opinion, the most illogical of all emotions. It did nothing but paralyze further, and he was at a loss with how to offer comfort yet still protect them both, while acquiescing to Jim's request that he explain no further. There was nothing to be done, not at this time, at least. He settled his mind and gave a nod, straightening his posture and lifting his chin. “Do you still require a waste receptacle beside your bed?”

“I can get it myself if I do.”

“Very well.” It was not enough, and Spock lingered at Jim's bedside, aware he was at risk of undertaking what his mother had used to call 'dithering'. Vulcans did not dither. “You should not sleep in an entirely prostrate position, or you will be risking the aspiration of vomitus.”

Jim punched a pillow into a firmer shape beneath his neck, his jaw jutting out antagonistically as he settled his head back down. “There. I'm good. Go.”

“I will see you tomorrow. Good night, Jim.” 

“Yeah. Guess so. 'Night.” 

Jim turned over onto his side, his back to Spock as his legs stretched out over the bed's covers, his socked feet strangely vulnerable as one curled against the other for warmth or maybe comfort. Spock took it as his final dismissal and made to leave, the captain's doors opening for him as he heard, whispered in a bitter tone he was certain was not meant for his ears. 

“And a merry fucking Christmas to you, too, Mr. Spock.”

~*~

“Happy Christmas, Captain!”

“Merry Christmas, Captain.”

It seemed that Doctor McCoy had made good on his threat, a rumpled-looking Jim holding up a finger to silence both Hannity and Hellesdon as he moved with careful steps from the turbolift doors to the captain's chair, where Spock had stood in readiness to greet him.

“Captain.”

Jim clutched at his head and whimpered as he reached out with his free hand to grab hold of the back of the captain's chair.

“Loud. Way too loud. Everybody quit shouting at me, then maybe we can get through this shift with a minimum of mass demotions and official reprimands.”

“Of course.”

“I think I might actually be dying. This is no hangover. This is Antarean Flu or something.” Jim collapsed into the chair, leaning forward to hold his head in both hands as he closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. “Sulu, what's up? Slowly, and _quietly_ , please.”

Sulu had arrived on-shift three hours ago shortly after Spock had himself, and did not appear to be suffering the same after-effects of the party that the captain was. 

“Maintaining the course set for Alta Nuova at warp four point five, sir.”

“Uh-huh.” Jim opened his eyes a centimeter, the bridge lighting seeming to disagree with him as he squeezed them shut again with a groan. “Rosen? Anything to add? Please say no.”

“All ship's systems are functioning within standard parameters, Captain.”

“Awesome. Somebody wake me when we get there.”

Jim seemed to be settling down into the chair to sleep, his hips hiked forward, one ankle propped on the knee of the other leg, his head supported by his shoulder as he relaxed back and pinched the bridge of his nose. Spock waited a full second before responding as he felt he should.

“If I may remind the captain of Starfleet regulation four seven five stroke zero two – ”

The blue, bloodshot eyes opened a crack to glare at him hotly. 

“I'm aware that I'm not supposed to nap while in command of the fleet flagship, thank you, Commander.” Jim forced himself further upright, the glare softening into a wince. “Get to your station, I'm okay, not dying. Just you wait, Bones'll have a sudden attack of conscience and arrive up here with his hypo in ten minutes. But someone had better bring me a vat of coffee, stat.”

Spock was not sure what, precisely, he had expected from the captain this morning, but this had not been it. However, on hearing Jim activate the Captain's Log control and begin his first entry of the day, admittedly in rather more subdued tones than usual, Spock felt satisfied that their handover had been completed and that he could now attend to the rest of his duties for the remainder of his shift. He was halfway to his console when one sentence stopped him in his tracks.

“Oh, Mr. Spock, one more thing – Can you meet me in my quarters after my shift's ended? I've got something I need to ask you.”

“Of course, Captain.”

The physical laws of the known universe dictated that, outside of an external phenomenon such as a subspace breach or sizable singularity, which none of of the ship's sensors were currently registering, Time was relative to the individual's rate of travel and to the area of Space that individual was located within. That did not begin to explain why the remaining nine hours seemed to pass for Spock at a rate somewhat slower than that of the extremeophile microbial growth he was distantly monitoring from the ship's labs.

~*~

“Come in.”

He was not fearful, or even apprehensive of entering the captain's quarters, Spock knew it, but he inexplicably paused for a beat of point zero nine seconds prior to moving through the door. His meditation had been disordered and frustrating last night, his mind unable to settle into the deeper state of contemplation and cognition that it was increasingly in need of, and eventually he had been forced to accept an hour's light sleep prior to his shift beginning. It was not enough, and every second in Jim's company would threaten his delicate state of composure further.

“Hi, Spock.” Jim looked completely recovered, his skin once more a fresh, pink-tinged and becoming shade of pale peach, his rare blue eyes clear as a summer San Francisco sky after the morning mists had lifted. Perfection made flesh, all the more beautiful in his imperfections. Spock almost dithered once more before willing his feet to carry him through the doorway and fully into the captain's quarters. “Thanks for coming. Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sit, I'll just be a second.”

The tea was not hot enough, as it never was, its flavor too weak and not as bitter as it would need to be to meet Spock's personal preference, but it was hydrating and contained trace elements that would minutely assist him with his fatigue. He waited as Jim fetched himself a fresh cup of coffee, its strong scent so closely linked in Spock's mind with Jim now that Spock wondered if it would always evoke thoughts of this friend and colleague, no matter where in the galaxy he was at that time. 

“You know why I asked you here?”

“I am not certain, no.” There were many possibilities, and Spock had not wished to give any one of them precedence in his mind. 

“Okay.” Jim placed his cup down, a frown creasing his forehead, and he propped his boots up on his coffee table as he sat back, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment before speaking. “My memory of last night is . . . kind of fuzzy. As in, non-existent, where most of the evening's concerned. You're the only person I can ask this, because you're not a generally judgmental sort of guy, and I already tried with Bones. He laughed at me till I left his office.”

“A predictable response, given the doctor's fondness for _schadenfreude_.”

“No kidding. I guess what I need to know is, who do I need to apologize to? I know what I'm like when I'm drunk. There's got to be a whole line of people I annoyed in some way or another.”

This was not one of the possibilities Spock had envisioned. “You have no memory of last night?”

“A few flashes here and there. Nothing coherent. Who did I offend most?”

“No-one that I am aware of.” Spock breathed out his disappointment along with a sudden spike of anger at himself for having ever put a stop to Jim's drunken advances. “I did not witness any behavior on your part that would necessitate an apology.”

“No? Huh. I could've sworn . . .” Jim sighed and rubbed his face with both hands before looking over to Spock, his expression guarded, his voice cautious. “I didn't want to have to ask this, because it might makes things awkward between us if I'm wrong. And I don't know what the hell it'll mean if I'm right. But I need to figure something out, and you're my first stop.”

“I will, of course, assist you if I am able to.” 

“I think I remember, uh, kissing someone. I have no idea who I kissed, if it happened at all, but I remember I was so incredibly happy to be kissing that person, and I think that they were kissing me back. It felt so real. And, y'see, this is the awkward thing –” 

Jim puffed out his lips and paused, looking at the floor between them both. “There's only one person on board I'd be that happy about kissing. So, I have to ask . . .”

Another sharp intake and outward huff of breath, as Jim scrunched up his face as if in pain. “Did I kiss you last night?”

Spock's pulse started to speed, steadily increasing in rapidity until it was raging through his veins as though his body was under unsustainable stress, as if he had been running for hours with no end in sight. But he directed himself under control, his heart slowing, and he opened his mouth, his words as steady as always, rather than the dry croak he had half-expected. 

“Yes, you did.”

“Oh.” Jim's cheeks colored with a slash of red across each one. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “On the mouth?”

“Yes.”

“With tongue? I seem to remember there was lots of tongue.”

“Affirmative.”

“Ah.” Jim was chewing at his lip and staring at the floor between them once more, his face burning a deeper red, the skin on his neck growing blotchy. “Okay. Well, that's a new thing. You're sure I've got nobody to apologize to, Spock?”

The moment stretched between them as Spock decided how best to answer, the weight of his words, the logical outcome of anything he might say next and Jim's potential reactions. Spock decided that this was perhaps a matter best left to Vulcan equanimity, Jim almost squirming in embarrassment and unnecessary discomfort, when the situation between them was clearly in need of a mutually-satisfactory resolution.

“No apology is necessary. Your recollection was correct – I kissed you back.”

Wary eyes met his. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” That seemed too curt, and in need of qualification. “With my tongue.”

“With your . . . oh.”

“I would have welcomed more, had you been capable of giving your informed consent.”

“More?” Jim's lips began to curl upwards in a smile, his eyebrows rising in tandem, the skin above his flushed cheekbones creasing.

“Yes, Jim, more. I have physically desired you since I first saw you. Now that I am aware we are compatible both in an intellectual and a social sense, and that you physically desire me in return, in addition to loving me, logic dictates—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, wait a goddamn minute, there. Back up. I _what_ you?”

“You informed me that you love me.”

Narrowed, suspicious eyes called Spock a liar. “No, I don't think I did that.”

“Yes, you did. Three times.”

Jim groaned, hanging his head and rubbing the pads of his thumbs against his eyelids. “Really? Shit, I must've been more fucked up than I realized.”

“You said at the time that you would regret speaking to me of your needs.” Spock needed to know Jim's answer to this. To all of it. “Was that an accurate assessment? How much of what you said to me last night may I rely on as legitimate? Am I to dismiss the entire conversation as inebriated, regrettable gibberish?”

“You're mad at me.” Jim got to his feet, crossing the square meter of floor between his chair and the couch. “That's understandable.”

“I am not angry.” 

Was he? Spock could no longer tell. Perhaps that, above all things, should demonstrate to him that Jim's effect on him was, as it had always been, troublesome to the point where he should keep his distance. It had preyed on his mind since first submitting his candidacy as First Officer, aware as he had been that this issue would develop to the point where something had to change, also aware that he had no way of concluding what form that change would take. He now watched Jim sit next to him, a knee close to his own, a hand on the couch between them. A soft, kissable mouth fourteen centimeters' distance away. Not far enough. Too far by a sizable margin.

“I think we're getting ahead of ourselves. I'm not sorry I kissed you, now I know it was definitely you I was kissing. I thought it must be. It had to be.” Two warm fingers stroked over the back of his hand, Spock's eyes closing for a moment with pleasure before focusing on the movement of those fingers against his. “You're right that I physically desire you. Fuck, Spock, I've been walking around with a permanent semi-hard since I first got on-board. And, yes, I may have certain feelings towards you, but I think it'd be best for both of us if we pretend like I didn't say anything or you didn't hear. It's too soon.”

“I cannot lie.” 

He did not wish to forget those words. They had hung around his head and neck all day like a garland of champions. He loved and was loved. It was the cultural pinnacle of all Human endeavor, something even his staid, responsible father had challenged convention over. It was everything. 

“Not lie. Just, I don't know, put them to one side for now. See where this thing goes without any pressure on us to be somewhere we're not.”

Jim's fingers were threading themselves between his own where they lay against the fabric of Jim's couch, a dry callous beside Jim's index fingernail lightly scratching against Spock's skin causing a shudder of awareness to warm his body like the radiation of an equatorial midday sun. He rubbed his own finger against Jim's, enjoying the internal flood of additional heat that accompanied Jim's answering grin, a telepathic wave of affection and desire bleeding into him as he cautiously lowered his shields. It did not seem right or fair to allow Jim to make all the physical advances, so Spock moved his leg until his knee abutted Jim's, the pressure immediately returned.

“So, where do we go from here?” Spock would have not formerly believed that any smile from James T. Kirk could be categorized as shy, but it was the only accurate specification. “After all this time and wanting it so long, it's hard to believe we're going to do this.”

“I did not pursue coitus with you last night because the level of your intoxication indicated to me that you were not fully in command of your self and your choices.”

“Probably a good call, considering what a mess I was in this morning.” Jim shifted closer on the couch, one hand smoothing up Spock's back as they began to turn towards each other fully. “How much would it've sucked if I couldn't remember much about our first time?”

Spock's chest felt constricted, his heart pounding harder and faster at his side as Jim's hand reached his neck, fingers beginning to toy with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “We should first discuss how this development in our personal relationship may professionally affect both ourselves and others.”

“I don't want to talk, not now. We'll talk tomorrow. It's Christmas, Spock.” Jim stroked his thumb over the tip of Spock's ear, smiling into Spock's eyes as he leaned closer. “And I haven't given you your gift yet.”


End file.
